


Prickly Heat

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10041500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: "He's really cute," Annie says."He'snotcute," Harry says. "And you'regay.""I can still tell that he'sadorable," Annie says. "And man, he grewup."Harry sputters. "Stop perving on a twenty year old!" he says.“Youstop perving on a twenty year old,” Annie retorts.“I neverstarted!” Harry says.





	

Harry was hoping this roommate situation wasn’t permanent. He added caveats when he begged the generally cruel Hockey Gods; he’d rather have Connelly as his roommate than get sent down, or even have Connelly get sent down, because Harry would never wish that on another player, and they’d be a weaker team without him. Either of them getting injured would also not fly, so don’t think Harry’s asking for that, Hockey Gods.

He was just hoping some shuffling might happen when the roster was finalized. Maybe Connelly would go whine to management that Harry was a bad roommate, though that really isn’t his style and the idea of it makes Harry’s stomach twist a little for no reason he can figure out. Maybe because he hasn’t been a bad roommate, or at least not terrible. He’s not going to get a Connelly shadow like Victor has any time soon, and they’re not even friendly, let alone friends, but still.

Well, Connelly _is_ friendly. Relentlessly friendly. Last year he asked a fucking _opponent_ that got dumped into their bench if he was okay and helped him out without the violent push you’d usually give a fucker who just ended up in your lap. The room got a lot of mileage out of that one. “You apologize to every guy you check too, Sweetheart?” Roman had asked, and Connelly went bright, like maybe he actually did. Or more likely because he was all overcome by the fact that, oh my gosh, Roman Novak is talking to _me_ , lil ol’ Evan Connelly, whatever shall I do? Ooh, I should go with the usual: blush and stammer. 

They have a three game roadtrip to start the season, which kind of bites for a couple reasons. Starting a season in your own building’s the way to go: clean slate, fans pumped. Plus, while trips down south are awesome when it’s minus twenty or some brutal shit, they are way less awesome in October. Harry glances at Dallas’ forecast before he packs, crossing his fingers. 80’s fine, he guesses, if an adjustment from 55, but the humidex? The humidex is fucking 99. In October. The Hockey Gods’ cruelty extends to scheduling.

“Why are you like this?” Harry asks despairingly, and then packs an extra bottle of sunscreen and his lightest suits.

Annie calls him a couple hours before he has to head to the airport, and it’s probably sad how much that makes his fucking day, but who cares. Day made. He hasn’t had a chance to talk to Annie properly since the end of training camp, since she’s been working crazy hours and then throwing basically all her free time into NWHL volunteering. They text every day, so Harry knows the important stuff, but it’s not the same as calling, which almost always ends with his phone almost dead, hot against his ear. There are so many amazing things about being in the NHL, being on the North Stars, but living halfway across the country from Annie isn’t one of them. 

They start with the usual: Harry talked to the folks and Sam more recently than she did so he’s the update-giver on that front, she gives him the rundown on how Junior year is going for Deb so far then gushes about her perfect girlfriend, which would be more annoying if Harry didn’t love the shit out of Erin, Harry tells her everything Beau related until she starts laughing at him and says he talks more about Beau than most people talk about their babies.

“That’s because babies are boring,” Harry defends himself. Beau’s not boring. 

Annie snorts, but doesn’t argue, probably because Harry didn’t say the second part out loud.

“How’s Val?” Annie asks, right on schedule. She’s basically adopted him and doesn’t believe Harry when he says anything bad about him, or even less than awesome. When he told her about being sexiled she went all shocked old maid or something, which is pretty rich considering she hooked up with more girls in her first year of college than Harry has, like. Ever.

“Dude’s stuck in Des Moines, how do you think?” Harry asks.

“Don’t be a snob,” Annie says.

Look, Harry lived in Iowa for two frigging seasons. Harry gets to talk smack about Des Moines, unlike Ms. Never Left NYC, which he points out, and she less than graciously acknowledges.

“Anyway, I traded way down on roommates,” Harry says. He hadn’t mentioned his rooming woes to her yet, maybe hoping they’d spontaneously disappear if he pretended it wasn’t happening. No luck, obviously.

“Anyone would be trading down,” Annie says loyally. Sometimes Harry thinks she’d swap him for Val in a heartbeat. More often than sometimes, honestly. “Who’d you get?”

“Connelly,” Harry says.

"Connelly's the giant you have a crush on?" Annie asks.

Harry scoffs. Like Annie needs to guess identities, she watches all his and Sam's games and all the media stuff. "You know who he — wait, I don't have a _crush_ on him."

"Okay," Annie says.

"He's annoying," Harry says. "He's really —"

"Remember Claire?" Annie interrupts.

Harry dated Claire for half of high school, so he'd hope so. 

"Remember how you used to say Claire was the most annoying person alive?" Annie asks. "For years? Until you basically wanted to marry her?"

"That is _not_ the same thing," Harry says.

"He's really cute," Annie says.

"He's _not_ cute," Harry says. "And you're _gay_."

"I can still tell that he's _adorable_ ," Annie says. "And man, he grew _up_."

Harry sputters. "Stop perving on a twenty year old!" he says.

“ _You_ stop perving on a twenty year old,” Annie retorts.

“I never _started_!” Harry says.

Annie makes a loud, skeptical noise.

“I’m hanging up on you,” Harry warns.

“You hate when I’m right,” Annie says.

“You’re not right!” Harry says, and then does hang up before he argues with her about it all day.

 _Am so_ , Annie texts, and he sends her a picture of his middle finger and a text saying _You’re no longer my favorite sister_ , which is unfortunately a lie, despite her sucking. Deb doesn’t suck. Deb’s nice to him. Deb should be his favorite sister. 

Annie doesn’t dignify that with a response. She knows he’s lying too.

*

By the time they get on the bus to the hotel in Dallas, Harry’s pretty sure he’s sweated through his suit, and they were only outside for ten minutes. Holy _fuck_ is it hot. He’s not built for this. He’s a fucking _ginger_ for god’s sakes.

It’s a dim comfort that he’s far from the only one suffering; there’s visible sweat on Victor’s shiny ass forehead, and it’s hard to tell if Connelly somehow got burnt in less than ten minutes or if he’s appalled with himself for thinking a dirty thought or Roman smiled at him or something. Roman, on the other hand, is annoyingly unaffected. Hell, he spent the time waiting for the bus fucking _basking_ in it, like Beau does with patches of sunlight. It’s obscene and offensive.

 _I’m in literal hell_ , Harry texts Annie.

 _Welcome to Texas_ , Annie replies. Annie doesn’t like Texas. They all went down to San Antonio when Harry was a kid to visit his aunt, and Annie, too cool for sunscreen, came back looking like she’d been boiled alive. She nearly ended Sam’s Bantam season when he slapped her hard on the back like an asshole, responding with a knee in the balls that Harry’s still wincing at the memory of almost fifteen years later. Sam cried like a fucking baby. It was both epic and terrifying.

Harry shucks his suit jacket and spins the thermostat down as low as it goes the second they get into their room, then belatedly realizes he should probably ask if that’s okay. Novy liked it cold too, Siberian bastard, but that’s not necessarily the case with Connelly.

“It okay if I turn the AC on high?” Harry asks reluctantly, not entirely sure he’ll listen if Connelly says no. It’s really, _really_ fucking hot.

“Please,” Connelly says. “I think I’m more sweat than suit.”

“Gross,” Harry says, like he isn’t in the exact same state. It reminds him, at least, to hit the bathroom and wash his face, because sweat is his enemy, and so are his pores. The last thing he needs right now is the shit the guys will give him if he has a breakout like he did last year, which he’s pretty sure happened in Dallas too. Welcome to Texas indeed.

The air’s kicked in when he kicks his shoes off and sits on his bed, but he still feels hot, irritable. He knows that’s probably more in his own head than anything else, but it doesn’t make it any easier to shake. Or, any easier to shake right until Siobhan shoots him a snap, and Harry’s bad mood vanishes like smoke when he sees a picture of Beau napping, protectively curled around her own dog.

“What are you smiling at?” Connelly asks.

“Oh, it’s just a picture of Beau,” Harry says.

“Can I see?” Connelly asks.

“I guess?” Harry says, and hands his phone over the gap between their beds.

“He’s adorable,” Connelly says. “Is the yorkie yours too?”

“No, thank god,” Harry says with a shudder. Yappy little dogs kind of bug him, but even if they didn’t, Winston’s a damn terror. “No, I pay someone to take Beau in when we’re out of town. You know, so he doesn’t get lonely or anything.”

Connelly smiles at him. “That’s really sweet,” he says.

“It’s just common sense,” Harry mumbles.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Connelly says, handing his phone back.

“I’m more lucky to have him,” Harry says.

“The fact you’re saying that means he’s lucky,” Connelly says, and Harry feels himself go red, shoves his phone in his pocket. Being a fucking ginger is hell, and the worst part of it is the way your skin goes redder than your hair. Though no one can beat Connelly on the blushing, and he isn’t even a redhead.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Connelly asks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry snaps. 

“Um,” Connelly says. “I was just going to take a shower before dinner, so if you—”

“No, go ahead,” Harry says, and feels himself go even redder, because he can’t seem to stop himself from biting Connelly’s head off like a defensive jackass over fucking everything. Who would even blame Connelly if he _did_ go to management all ‘Chalmers is a jackass, give me Kjeldsen back.’ And then ‘please’, probably, because practically everything ends in a please or thank you from him, manners so precise they’re practically rude, though he’s sure he’d get a lot of raised eyebrows if he ever tried to argue that.

Connelly disappears into the bathroom, and Harry can hear him singing over the spray of the shower. He’s completely tone deaf. Like, impressively tone deaf. Harry doesn’t think he hits the right note once, and he doesn’t even know whatever the song he’s singing is. 

_Tone deaf_ , Harry adds to the mental list of reasons to ask for a different roommate, though, again, _too polite_ or _annoyingly friendly_ probably aren’t going to get him anywhere, and Connelly hasn’t revealed any annoying habits so far. Well, until now, but if not being able to sing precluded someone from being Harry’s roommate, he’s pretty sure most of the North Stars would be disqualified. The one and only karaoke night they did last season will haunt Harry until the day he dies. 

Connelly blessedly goes quiet after a few minutes, and Harry relaxes until Connelly comes out of the bathroom in a ridiculously tiny towel that barely cinches around the sharp cut of his hips.

“Jesus, Connelly, put some clothes on,” Harry sputters.

Connelly blinks at him. His hair’s dripping, wet, into his eyes, beads of water rolling down his chest. Harry swallows as he watches one droplet slowly make its way down, getting diverted when it reaches a small pink nipple, gone tight and hard in the over air-conditioned room. 

“I am,” he says, and when he goes to grab his clothes, Harry stares at the flex of his back, the way it tapers from swimmer broad shoulders to trim waist to an ass even through a towel you can tell is — 

Oh fuck, Annie’s _right_.

 _I fucking hate you_ , Harry texts, pointedly turning his back to Connelly as he changes. 

_I KNEW IT_ , Annie texts back.

Connelly retreats into the bathroom, and Harry thinks he’s safe, but a minute later he comes out in briefs, toweling his hair dry. Harry swallows and looks down at his phone, but not before catching a glimpse of Connelly’s ass in briefs that have no right to be as tight as they are, clinging to him like a second skin. Harry wonders if he’s wearing ones he bought before he bulked up, because he doesn’t remember him wearing underwear this tight before. He has no idea why he _would_ remember that, it’s not like he’s been looking, but — he’s pretty positive they weren’t that tight. 

“Jesus Connelly, those things are going to rip the second you bend over,” Harry’s stupid bastard mouth says without his permission. Connelly immediately goes pink, and Harry does too, swallowing and trying not to watch the way it climbs down his throat, his chest. It’s a running joke in the room that Connelly blushes with his whole body, and not just when he’s embarrassed. He looks freshly sunburned after every game, blotchy pink and breathless and sweaty, Harry wonders if that also applies to — Harry does _not_ wonder anything because those thoughts are inappropriate and bad and Harry wants to smother himself with a pillow.

He puts one in his lap instead. You know, just because.

Harry hates his entire life right now.

 _what else is new )))_ , Val sends him when Harry texts him that thought. Harry hates Val too.

 _do the kings need a forward_ , Harry texts Sam.

 _not if its u_ , Sam texts back heartlessly.

“Coming for dinner?” Connelly asks, finally actually wearing something other than a blush and a pair of underwear that would fit _Harry_. 

Harry swallows. “You go ahead,” he says. “I have to make a call, I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”

“Sure,” Connelly says, and basically the second the door shuts Harry’s hitting up the bathroom, because the last thing in the world Harry’s fucking awful day needs is Connelly realizing he’s forgotten something and then returning to find Harry with his dick in his hand.

He stares at himself in the mirror after he tucks himself back in his pants and washes his hands, narrowing his eyes at his flushed, stupified face. “I hate you most of all,” he says. “I hope you know that. You have shit taste. He’s not even cute.”

His own expression seems pretty unimpressed with his filthy lying mouth. Harry feels him.


End file.
